Mary Oliver Poems
|2.||The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac||10/16/2015|
|3.||Sand Dabs, Five||1/13/2003|
|4.||Song Of The Builders||3/30/2005|
|6.||That Sweet Flute John Clare||1/3/2003|
|8.||On Winter's Margin||3/30/2005|
|13.||Hummingbird Pauses At The Trumpet Vine||3/30/2005|
|18.||Some Things The World Gave||1/13/2003|
|20.||The Truro Bear||3/30/2005|
|21.||Walking To Oak-Head Pond, And Thinking Of The Ponds I Will Visit In The Next Days And Weeks||1/13/2003|
|22.||Such Singing In The Wild Branches||3/30/2005|
|26.||Toward The Space Age||1/13/2003|
|30.||Picking Blueberries, Austerlitz, New York,1957||3/30/2005|
|32.||Two Kinds Of Deliverance||3/30/2005|
|33.||The Chance To Love Everything||1/3/2003|
|34.||Sleeping In The Forest||1/3/2003|
|35.||Climbing The Chagrin River||1/13/2003|
|39.||Starlings In Winter||3/30/2005|
A Dream Of Trees
There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company.
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.
There is a thing in me still dreams of trees,
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him ...
Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was